By Anyone's Standards
by Reikanishy
Summary: It was raining, when Al has his terrible day.


It was a beautiful day, by anyone's standards. The sky was cloudy and softly spoken with rain, and wind gentle as it caressed cool air through windows that were thrown wide open. The fresh smell of a brewing storm coated everything, and the dimly filtered sunlight banished all shadows back to whence they came.

It was a productive day, by Hawkeye's standards. Nobody had decided to suddenly take a longer lunch break that extended for most of the afternoon. Nobody complained about the workload that was steadily increasing due to the Colonel's sudden rise to Central city itself, and the headquarters situated there. And best of all they did their work quietly, tempers cooled by the rain that had just started to patter softly, outside the window and in whatever realm passed as the real world.

It was an enjoyable day, by Havoc's standards. Nobody had berated him for some misled signal, which seemed to happen more and more often nowadays. And nobody told him off for smoking in the office, leaning against the window sill and letting the smoke waft outside, busily scribbling off case notes about the Lab 5 explosion. And best of all he had a date tonight, a beautiful honey by the name of Lila, and for once he had found a woman that wasn't impressed by Mustang's inevitably seductive charm and power.

It was a distinctive day, by Breda's standards. The cafeteria had served his favourite casserole for lunch again, and while he had enjoyed his second serving the head cook decided to sit with him and talk about what ingredients she used. And he hadn't stepped on any toes today, so he wasn't looking forward to a three hour lecture from the Gunsmith herself, which had to be a bonus any way you looked at it. And best of all he had nearly finished to difficult task of decrypting the latest garbage from higher up, so he looked forward to more menial tasks better suited for such a lazy-feeling day.

It was a lucrative day, by Mustang's standards. Several small insignificant plans had decided to be helpful for once, and had immediately opened up a small window of opportunity that while couldn't be easily wasted, was highly appreciated. His house had been stolen by a lower ranking Lieutenant, but he had been given the opportunity to skim the top of the cream from the many housing situations that benefited those even higher ranked than he. Best of all, there was no pressure to finish the day quickly, so he had plenty of time to lean back in his chair, not even having to keep an eye out for an angry disciplinarian who seemed to have the oddest fascination with him working constantly.

It was a painless day, by Edward's standards. The wounds in his side and on his arm had now reached the stage that while tender, still allowed enough leeway to let him escape the dismal hospital room. Winry had decided to spend a few more days with Gracia and Mayes, so he had the fortune of spending time with his 'sister', laughing and talking and forgetting for a little while that everything wasn't alright. And best of all Al had started speaking to him again, though his words were hushed and his eyes brighter than usual, like some great epiphany had allowed him an insight Edward wasn't privy to. None the less, he was grateful that his brother didn't seem to be stewing in whatever prison his mind created for itself.

But it was one of the worse days of Alphonse's life, by his standards, and he was reaching the critical point where he just couldn't cope anymore.

It wasn't a bright feeling explosion, the thought that had rocked his world some days ago. While he had never spoken to Edward about the words that Barry had easily pierced him with, and had somehow figured a way to accept that it just wasn't possible to create those kinds of memories and the people's stories to back them up, he was hurting and he didn't know how to stop it. Worst of all Edward didn't seem to realise, or just didn't care, and Al felt hollow places inside of his armour begin to crack, to sway in the wind that barely turned the curtains.

He was certain, however, that he was too much of a burden to continue to beg off of his brother's devotion. There was no conceivable way to create a perfect stone without sacrifice, and even if Edward had the courage and the gall to go ahead against his wishes, he was sure that he wouldn't survive long in a body created by the deaths of countless others. Besides the very fact that maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to realise just how tired he had been all these empty years.

So he watched, curiously detached, the smallest motions that seemed to comprise the very essence of humanity, and strangely enough, it was right inside this room where it could be observed so easily.

Hawkeye didn't know it, but Alphonse knew she could be incredibly emotional, and it was the way her body spoke that alerted him to this. The way her hands clenched, the tilt of her head, the light in her eyes; every single breath mimed the constant ebb and flow of countless passions, which had drawn him to her in the first place. So easy to admire her, with her dedication and love for the Colonel.

And Havoc didn't realise the way his voice lilted after breathing in a mouthful of orange scented smoke, the wry way his eyes lit up when he enjoyed the small pleasure the slim cigarette brought him. He was obviously daydreaming about some lady friend, because the smile on his lips was soft and real, and his face wasn't hooded with the usual bored urgency that somehow categorised him so well.

Breda was looking pleased as he scribbled some notes at the end of the page he was working on, but Al could see the small frown that creased his forehead, and knew he was starting to wonder if he hadn't missed something that could be disastrous later down the road; He always double checked everything he did, be it in writing reports or eating, and Al knew he was just as nervous and scared as the rest of them, though he tried so hard to hide it.

Mustang was so ridiculously easy to read that Alphonse sometimes grew ashamed of him, though the why of it he could never say. Perhaps it was the way he wore his heart on his sleeve, or the horror that lurked behind the midnight prisms of his eyes, but sometimes Al thought that perhaps there was something else, some wall inside of the man that allowed him to act is such a way. He was full of seething jealousy as well, for the man that had inadvertently stolen Edward from him, who had taken his beloved brother just that little bit further away.

And Edward himself.

Arrogant, neurotic, almost sociopathic in the sheerly determined way he tackled all things in life, yet was held in check by morals so high that all else crumbled before them. So beautiful yet he couldn't see it, so smart and yet ignorant of the things he truly knew to be real. A golden boy that had been dipped in blood, and that thin veneer of crimson life was only another stone in the crevasse that had started to form between them. And Alphonse was so deeply angered by him, and saddened by his actions, and guilty because Ed could have survived their sin without him while he had to depend on a small sign imprinted in steel to keep him tethered to this physical realm.

Jealous, so jealous and frustrated and distressed of his sheer existence that sometimes, while his exhausted brother slept, Al held a wet cloth in his hands and dreamt of lives where it hadn't all gone to hell. Pressed it against his chest plate, and fantasised about simply opening it and wiping, just wiping and wiping until he just couldn't wipe anymore. And wondering if it would hurt, a cowardly thought, though one he had contemplated a thousand times in the past few days.

The rain eased up a little, and Al felt like weeping as bright shards of light passed through the clouds, making everything shine and glisten. Edward's eyes lit up, an imagined golden glow refracting the luminosity even more, and he nudged Al in the side as he leaned forward in his chair. "It's like being inside a crystal, isn't it?"

"I…don't know, brother." How to ever tell the person you loved, the most devoted person in the world, that everything you saw was silken grey? That the light was just a different kind of shading for him, though opposite in effect and colour? "What does the rain smell like?"

An eyebrow rose, as casual muscles slid and worked and allowed their master to slide back in his chair, lips forming words that sound echoed only a second later; an eternity later. "Um…like rain?"

"Smells fresh and clean," Hawkeye murmured, clearly intent on her paperwork, but to Al's trained eyes she was straining at her leash, ears almost twitching. He didn't understand why she became this way whenever he spoke, as if she was trying to cross a large distance to speak to him while he was right in front of her.

"Like that," muttered Havoc, and he slid back into his chair after snapping the window gently closed, idly slipping a cigarette behind his ear, bright eyes flickering over to Al for a second. "Smells green and airy too, somehow."

"Mist," grunted Breda, scratching the back of his head as he leaned forward a little bit more. "Smells like the mist that comes off the river."

"Steam." Mustang's only answer, and he too raised an eyebrow, holding the phone away from his ear for a mere moment before diverting attention back to Mayes. Somehow the phone had rung without Al noticing it, and he shattered into a million little shards and spilt across the floor. He shone in the light too, because metal can only shine, and he could never glow softly like the people he so hated and admired.

"It doesn't smell like blood to you?" His voice a little too shrill, his posture a little too obviously laboured. And a shocked silence that filled the room from the inside out, as the clouds closed in again, and the day became shadowed just that little bit more. The rain fell just that little bit heavier, crashing against the ground like the marching of a ghostly army.

"It doesn't taste like rotting things, and bright lights, and emptiness?" He stood a little too sharply, bumping the table just a little too hard, and he thought he imagined the whispering sounds of papers sliding to the floor. Like a million whispers asking him questions, asking him why he hadn't done it, a medley of accusations. Ed rose fast too, mouth starting to fall slightly open, eyes widening as shock raced through him like a living creature. Elsewhere movement had stilled, and Al stood inside a vacuum as he crossed to the window, to gaze at the textured grey and wishing a million impossible wishes.

"You don't want to step outside and open your mouth, and let it fill your lungs, all that lovely rain, until they burst?" A sharp little cry as Ed stepped back, tensing immediately, eyes so instantly full of guilt and self discrimination. But for once Alphonse didn't care, as he leaned forward too, and he whimpered softly as metal groaned instead of tendons creaking.

"Don't…want to just…sink…just sink away….just never be, and let the rain take it all away?' he whispered brokenly, and winced as Hawkeye's coffee mug crashed to the ground, shattered china spreading amongst the remains he had left behind in his wake. "Just slide down…until it's all gone…and it goes away…just goes away…"

He turned, and Edward had rain falling down his cheeks, eyes wide and filled with horror and sadness, and he shrugged as best he could while locked inside this container, inside this hell that only he knew now. "Brother…it's strange, but I feel so tired. So very tired. And I'm not…I'm not so scared anymore."

"Al…w-what are you saying…?" Squeaking words, and they didn't echo from within hell itself, they didn't know anything. Only pretty little meaningless words, only false hope and lies and bitterness. But he loved him so very dearly every word was precious, and Al paused to listen just to the timbre of Edward's voice, high pitched with fright as he fought the last part of him that simply whispered, 'No'.

"I'm saying…that the rain is beautiful. And it wasn't your fault, it never was. I love you brother, now and forever. I love you so much."

And Al just passed through the window as if the glass wasn't there, though it shattered into ice – crystals – around him, and the rain chimed like bells as it struck his shoulders, crept inside his helmet, made cold shiver through him softly until cold was no longer an option for this body to hold. Felt it start to slide and sway, to float on the surface of oily water…and then to sink below, to depths where the water was pristine and silent, and the only thing he felt was regret, for the life he might have had should he have been strong enough to take control of it. And then not even that.

And it was a beautiful day, by anyone's standards, when Al crumpled to the ground, almost sighing as he did so, and he found it beautiful. And Al's standards were very high indeed.


End file.
